


The Doctor's Wife

by JessieBlackwood



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Procedures, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:22:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessieBlackwood/pseuds/JessieBlackwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary Morstan is more than worthy of her husband and rises to the challenge when he is unavailable to tend to his friend's injuries. However, it will take a strong woman to persuade the stubborn Mr Holmes to let her help him. </p><p>The Sherlock Holmes stories are now in public domain so no disclaimers, although any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely accidental.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Doctor's Wife

**Author's Note:**

> Since I always figured that Mary Morstan had more potential than ACD gave her, I have allowed her a staring role here. No wilting violet, I have made her a little more than her governess role in the original stories. I have made her a trained nurse and John's assistant.

The frightful banging on the door awoke me from a fitful slumber to find that my husband had not yet returned from his call-out earlier that evening. The space beside me in the big bed was cold and despite our thick eiderdown, his absence made me shiver with anticipated chill. I was somewhat used to this by now, although the lateness of the hour suggested all was not going well for Mrs Welham with her fourth pregnancy. Her eldest son had called on us around eight that evening, shortly after dinner, to summon John to her side. He had gone willingly enough, despite it being a cold night. It was also wet and windy, sleety rain driven by a frozen wind, but at least the two of them had taken a Hansom on John’s insistence. 

The church clock struck two as I listened to my housekeeper’s grumbling exchange through our heavy front door as she tried to ascertain the nature of our visitor. Late indeed. We probably wouldn’t see John until the morning now. If our caller was someone looking for the doctor they would be sorely disappointed. Whoever he was he wouldn’t go away. Curiosity eventually drove me from my warm bed and I pulled my thick shawl about my shoulders, slid my feet into my carpet slippers and opened the casement, braving the rain-laden wind to peer down in order to see who was at our door. “Who goes?” I called, boldly. “Come into the light and let me see you.” 

A hunched figure appeared almost immediately, shuffling out from under the porch and into the circle of light cast by a nearby gas lamp. He was wet through despite the Churchill he wore, its shoulder cape in danger of being ripped, the wind was so hard. “Mrs Watson? I beg...your forgiveness...for the lateness of the hour....” The voice gasped around the words. 

“Mr Holmes?” I was shocked. The face he turned up to me was haggard, there was a cut clearly visible over one eye; blood had draggled down his cheek and the skin around the socket was blackened. “Stay right there!” I ducked back inside, closed the casement and went forthwith to call for Mrs Garrow to open the door immediately and let our friend inside. 

He was a sorry sight; bedraggled, his clothes spattered with blood and his trousers splashed with at least four shades of mud. His skin was paler than even its usual pallor. I led him into my husband’s consulting room, watching his slow hobbling progress with mounting concern. I saw him to a seat, whereupon he collapsed rather heavily and leaned over to one side, an arm wrapped around his midsection as if attempting to stop himself from falling apart. I left him briefly to ask Mrs Garrow to please see that the guest room on the ground floor was readied, that the bed be warmed and thence to bring me some boiled water and clean cloths as well as a tea tray for the two of us. Then I returned to Holmes’ side. 

He was staring at the floor, his face a mask of concentration. “My apologies...” he murmured quietly. “I was seeking...your excellent husband.” His voice was a shade stronger than before but he was still gasping out the words in short phrases, breathing shallowly as if it hurt him to expand his chest too far. “I fear I have...need of his services...but I deduce...he is not here?” 

“I am afraid that John is visiting a patient, otherwise you may rest assured he would be at your side, attending you himself.” 

“When do you...expect him back, madam?” 

“I am afraid I cannot tell you that, sir. He is delivering a baby. He might be on his way now or he might be hours yet. The mother was having a hard time.” I paused, regarding our friend carefully. “I am used to John staying until morning when the hour gets as late as this. He will probably reside there until he can catch a cab home.” I observed the slump to Holmes’ shoulders on hearing this news. “What ails you, Mr Holmes?” 

He sighed and swallowed hard and tried to smile, a sorry attempt, and tried to give the impression that everything was as it should be. “I will be...alright, now I am out...of that maelstrom.” He seemed to be relieved that he was at least out of the harsh weather. “If I might await...his return here, in the quiet...and the dark? I find it soothing...to my abused senses...” 

“Mr Holmes, if I may be so bold, might I make some deductions of my own? You are injured, that much is plain. That eye needs dressing immediately...” 

“No, no, madam... Do not fret for me... I shall be fine...” 

“You look fatigued and your voice gives away that you are in pain,” I said patiently. “You are also wet through and you will succumb to fever if you do not get out of those wet clothes as soon as possible.” I stood facing him and fixed him with a stern expression. “I will ask again, Mr Holmes. What ails you?” 

“Madam, it is not...not something I should...be discussing...with my erstwhile friend’s wife...” He looked at me in distress and waved a vague hand toward me, indicating my night attire. “Certainly not in such...undress....I shudder to think...what John would say...” 

“Nonsense, Mr Homes...Sherlock...” I ventured, boldly. I made my voice gentle and reassuring, but firm. “Please, call me Mary. You are my friend too, I hope. I trust you as John trusts you. You are a family friend now, not simply his friend. I wish you would realise this but right now, though, you are injured and soaked and cold and in no state to be kept waiting.” 

“I am...well enough...to wait...his return. It is...warm enough...in this room.” 

“I beg to differ. You are currently soaking that chair and you will catch a fever if you remain in those clothes a moment longer than you need. If it helps you, I shall return in more modest garments but help you I shall. I see I shall need to prove to you that I know what I am talking about.” I recalled all the times I had heard Holmes’ deduce facts from the details he was observing. Thus I endeavoured to do the same. “You are favouring your left side,” I said firmly. “Your left arm hasn’t moved much since you arrived. This leads me to believe you have some injury that you are trying to protect. I suspect cracked or broken ribs, which would also account for your laboured breathing. I would surmise that it hurts to draw too deep a breath, does it not? Your words to me are short and gasped.” I paused, reassessing what I could see and what I knew. “You are wet. Anyone abroad on such a night as this would be hard pressed not to be soaked, even if he had taken a cab which you did not, because either you were close enough to get here on foot or you deemed it too painful to suffer the jouncing such a journey would entail.” 

“How did you...deduce that?” 

“Simple. I sleep lightly when John is not here and so the slightest noise will wake me. There are few cabs abroad at this hour down our street and I did not wake before you pounded on our door. Had you arrived in a cab the noise would have aroused me so either you were close enough that there was no point in catching one or you decided to walk for some other reason but walk you did. I know without doubt that you will catch a fever if you stay in those wet clothes. That much is inevitable. The cut over your eye needs cleaning and requires stitches if you do not wish it to scar and even if you do not mind whether it scars or not, infection will take hold if you leave it too long before seeking treatment. That might spread to your eye and you might lose your sight. If anything says that you have been in a fight, then that does. I have seen plenty of injuries like it that have been caused by a fist or other blunt instrument.” 

“I might have fallen...” 

“Why would an able-bodied man such as yourself fall? You are not insensible with drink. I do not smell alcohol on you. You may have slipped on wet leaves or wet grass, that is not an unreasonable deduction, but ordinarily you are as agile as a mountain goat.” _And like a mountain goat, you are stubborn,_ I thought, somewhat uncharitably. “Highly unlikely therefore that you would simply fall. Coupled with the ribs, I suggest you have been attacked. Most likely by more than one assailant, otherwise you would not have fared so badly. You are well able to take care of yourself in a fight. John has told me often enough that you are skilled in a wide range of martial arts.” I paused for breath. “The blow to your head above your left ear--I can see the blood trail down your neck--has left you concussed, I can see as much from your eyes. You are displaying classic physical symptoms. Your pupils are fixed and dilated. How many fingers am I holding before your gaze?” 

“Two...” but there was a note of uncertainty in his voice. 

“One, Mr Holmes. Only one. You are experiencing double vision. Now, without moving your head I want you to please follow my finger with your eyes.” I moved my hand, holding one finger up for his eyes to trace. His gaze followed unsteadily. “Now, rather than continue to talk, you need treatment. I shall, out of deference to your sensibilities, return in a moment.” 

I almost ran out the door and up to our bedroom. Ignoring my stays, I grabbed a shirt and practical skirt, such as I wore when I attended on John in his surgery, and simply threw them on over my night dress, using it like a petticoat. Once suitably decent, I rushed back, only to find he hadn’t moved at all. “Come now, or do you want me to get into trouble with John for not taking care of the man he loves above all others in the world?” My words brought him up short, although I wasn’t sure whether it was the admission concerning my husband’s regard for his friend or my injunction that John would be angry with me that made him consider my words. He probably knew that John would never admonish me for any perceived lack on my part where Holmes was concerned. John knew as well as I how stubborn the man could be and Sherlock knew that John was all too aware of his failings. However, he always seemed surprised when anyone gave him praise. 

“Madam, he does not...love me...above _all_ others,” Sherlock said gently, his voice soft and almost pained. The emphasis on the word all caught my attention. “He loves you with all his heart.” The words were spoken reverently and I stopped short and met his eyes. There was a slight sadness there, but it was brief and he masked it carefully but not before I had noticed it. “My dear lady,” he continued. “I have no wish...to cause you distress.” 

“Good. Then do as I say. John will not think it improper that I help you. Indeed he would expect me to help to the best of my ability. Now, first of all, you must stay here with us; John will want to see you when he does return. However, we do not know when that might be so I implore you to submit to my help in his stead. I do assure you, he has taught me well and supplemented the teaching I had from St Thomas. There is rarely a day goes by that I don’t help him in the surgery.” Holmes regarded me with a thoughtful expression from the depths of the chair. 

He was disinclined to allow me to help him, I knew, but I was similarly unwilling to leave him unattended. Any injury he might have could be made worse the longer it was left to fester. I regarded him with concern. He looked diminished, weary. I knew the pain was wearing him down, as was the cold--he was shivering--but his resolve was near unbreakable. “I will attest to the fact...that I will not be returning...home tonight.” The words were quiet and more controlled but he was still in pain. To have him admit as much was a minor miracle. 

“Then let me help you to a bed.” 

“This chair shall suffice...” 

“No, it won’t. It is not nearly big enough to give you comfortable rest. You need a bed. Besides, with those injured ribs you should be lying comfortably and your head needs to be supported too. You know," I said thoughtfully, "knowing there is a man in the house, a friend, even though he is currently not himself, it is still a comfort.” I smiled. A brief flicker crossed Holmes’ face but then he resumed his blank mask. “Come now,” I said, linking an arm through his. I felt him flinch but held on. “Come, come. You _must_ let me help. I am not unused to this, you know. I run our home and I am quite capable of caring for you as well as John.” 

“Oh, you are the most damnable woman!” he said, but softly, and allowed the liberty while I laughed. He actually smiled as I took his arm on his good side and threw it over my shoulder, guiding him out of the door. “You are..too like your husband. Stubborn and willful...and loyal to a fault. You complement each other very well, my dear.” 

He obediently sat on a chair (I had spread a towel on it first) while I removed the warming pan from the bed and straightened the covers. I turned to him and made to take hold of his coat but he held it from me. “Please?” I asked. He sighed with exasperation and let it go. I carefully peeled it off and hung it on the back of the door. “Oh, my goodness, you’re bleeding. Why didn’t you tell me?” There was a rent in his trousers, along the outside of his thigh, heading up and inward. It was blood stained and rain wet. Delicately, I peeled aside the edges and heard his hiss of pain. “Shhh,” I soothed almost automatically. “It’s not too deep but it will probably need stitching. It definitely needs cleaning. Come, let me help you get out of those wet clothes.” 

“Absolutely not, Madam! I can manage...” he tried to stand, intending to fend me off physically but his injured leg gave way beneath him and he sat back down with an inarticulate cry of pain. His injured ribs must have jarred as well because he folded over, an arm around his chest, gasping. “I cannot...allow...” 

“Don’t talk and will you please stop fighting me?” 

“Madam... Mary, please...this is positively indecent! You are...a married woman,” he protested. 

“We have been through this already. I am a doctor’s wife, sir, but before I was married I was both governess and nurse. John seeks to protect me from some of the worst sights, I think because he is all too experienced in the horrors of warfare. What he fails to comprehend is that I have seen warfare of my own; a war with injury and illness. I took the Nightingale Oath, you know.” I fixed him with a stare. “ _With loyalty will I endeavor to aid the physician in his work,_ ” I recited. “ _and devote myself to the welfare of those committed to my care._ I have tended the sick and the injured and catered for their most intimate needs, Mr Holmes, men as well as women, and if I do not attend to you then I shall be guilty of breaking my oath as a nurse. Looking after you neither distresses me nor does it embarrass me. So come, please let’s not waste any more time and allow me to help. Keep your eyes closed if you must but I will not take no for an answer. Seeing you in pain like this, it distresses me. I have no wish for you to suffer needlessly.” 

He seemed to deflate then, as if his resolve failed him. Maybe my words had swayed him, I shall probably never know. He was suddenly pliant in my hands, like a child, as I carefully peeled the layers away, discarding his sodden muddy clothes in a basket Mrs Garrow brought. The good woman had brought the hot water in a ewer and placed it on the table as I gently helped Sherlock undress. I eased his braces from his narrow shoulders and tugged off his shirt and trousers, mindful of his damaged leg. If the lady thought I was acting improperly, she kept her opinion to herself, and dutifully brought me clean cloths and my husband’s spare medical bag when I asked her for it. 

John keeps two distinctly seperate medical bags, one for general use and one specifically for delivering babies. He has had so many to deal with this last year that he decided to keep a specific bag to save him time in rummaging around to find things like forceps and ether. Such is the life of a general practitioner. I was glad of that now. I helped Sherlock undress down to his underwear (he had a resigned expression on his face at this point) and then urged him to lie down on the bed whereon I had laid more towels so I could dry him and protect the covers. I wrapped my patient in these to keep him warm and laid a felt-wrapped stoneware hot water bottle alongside him. I also asked Mrs Garrow to bring me one of John’s spare nightshirts. 

I rummaged in John’s bag and brought out several things in whose usage my husband had instructed me well. I fitted the stethoscope in my ears and listened to my patient’s chest. John had taught me to listen to my own and to his, to hear the nuances of the heart beat, the noise of breathing, the difference between a healthy lung and one with influenza or pneumonia. Sherlock’s breathing was the shallow breath of a man in pain, but there was no unfamiliar sound that I could determine. John had taught me to check for broken bones, to see how they felt beneath the surface of the skin, whether cracked or fractured. I could feel two cracked ribs, low down on the right. I ran my hands firmly along his limbs, checking carefully, but I could find no other breaks. I pressed my fingers into his belly gently, probing for the turgidity that would tell me there was possible internal bleeding, but thankfully, despite obvious bruising and his grunt of protest, things felt as well as they might. 

The worst wound was along his thigh, and the cut above his brow less so but still in need of repair. I already knew how to stitch wounds, and I am fair with a needle and thread in the first place. John always complimented my smaller, longer-fingered hands, and was always fond of remarking that he felt women would make superior surgeons, being as they were no strangers to blood and had hands steady enough for intricate stitchery on a shirt. My husband is of progressive mind and cannot see why women should not be given the vote or allowed to study medicine. Thankfully he is not of the mind that we are all empty-headed and nervous creatures who cannot be trusted. 

I cleaned the wounds, Sherlock remaining stoic throughout, wincing only slightly and seemingly more with embarrassment than pain. When he realised my intent though, he balked and--wide eyed--tried to dissuade me. “Madam, please, are you quite out of your mind? It is illegal to practice such medicine without certification....” I sighed. 

“I did tell you that I am a trained nurse, Sherlock. I may call you that, might I not? I hope you shall not take offence.” The smallest of nods came at that and I smiled. “I attended London St Thomas School of Nursing. I was taught how to do this and even John has complemented my steady hand. Now please remember, I can sew a shirt button on with more patience and skill than my husband. Now, let me do my work.” His capitulation was sudden, accompanied by a sigh of defeat, but he ceased to resist me, allowing me to do what needed to be done. “Will you take Laudanum for the pain before I start?” He nodded and I dosed him appropriately, watching as the drug took hold. He closed his eyes and barely registered the needle when I injected lidocaine in his thigh so that I could stitch without him flinching every second. 

I dressed and bandaged the wounds when I was done, noting the sheen of sweat on his brow. He would have a fever, while his body fought off infection and the chill he had obviously acquired. I asked Mrs Garrow to please fetch another hot water bottle and another blanket as well as some cold water and a fresh cloth. I cleared the bloodied things away and then drew a chair to the bedside. Holmes was sleeping but fitfully, murmuring, tossing a little. I placed a cold damp cloth on his brow and soothed a finger down his cheek and he quieted with a soft moan but a delicate frown was still on his brow. I sat back to wait it out. 

When John arrived home, Mrs Garrow was still up despite her disturbed night and in well enough spirits to make breakfast. He was buoyed by the fact that Mrs Welham had been delivered of her fourth, a healthy baby girl, but it hadn’t been an easy birth. The good lady was exhausted and would need a lot of rest. He was surprised when Mrs Garrow greeted him and told him of Holmes’ visit. John came posthaste, his steps rousing me from a doze and I leaned in to check my patient’s pulse just as the door opened. Holmes’ pulse was strong, regular. His fever had broken and he looked flushed but at rest. With a smile for me, John quickly assessed the patient, making his own examination to satisfy himself of my endeavours. 

“Good Lord, Mary, you’ve done wonders,” he whispered, inspecting the wounds and pronouncing them clean and neatly stitched. I still basked in my husband’s praise, blushing slightly, even though I already knew my work was good. I am not a vain person but I am aware of my skills. “So, how did you persuade him?” 

“What, to let me help? I told him it would distress me if he did not. I also told him it would hurt you deeply if I did not do my utmost to help the man my husband loved.” He paused at that. “Well, it’s true,” I said gently. “I know, Love. I have known for a long time. You love each other, you and Sherlock. Oh, I know you love me. I have never doubted that. Yet Sherlock is your rock. He is your foil and your safe harbour. You are Johnson and Boswell, Enkidu and Gilgamesh, Patroclus and Achilles.” John chuckled.

“He is definitely my Achilles heel sometimes.” I laughed lightly and John bent to kiss me. “My remarkable lady,” he said softly, then glanced at Sherlock’s sleeping form. “Did you give him anything?” 

“Laudanum. I’m sorry, I know, it was hardly the best thing to allow him to have but he needed something.” 

“No, no, my dear, you did right. There’s precious little else would allow him ease. You look tired. You really should get some rest. I can sit with him now.” 

“I know nothing that would give you greater pleasure, my love, but you’ve been up all night. You really ought to rest yourself.” 

“I am fine...” said a sleepy voice from the bed. “You should both go and rest. I shall be alright.” We both looked and John moved to grab Holmes’ wrist in his gentle fingers, checking his pulse. John peered intently into Sherlock’s eyes and nodded.

“You look well enough, under the circumstances. Any pain?” 

“Nothing I cannot manage.” He yawned. “My head is throbbing, a little, but I shall sleep again, I think. I am warm and comfortable and cared for. Thank you, my dear,” he said to me. “I am forever in your debt. You have kept me safe.” I smiled and clasped his fingers, feeling them grip mine in return. 

“You don’t owe me anything, Sherlock. I’m only glad I could help.” I looked up at John and saw that fond look in his eyes. “My husband would never have forgiven me if I had not helped his best friend in any way I could. No more could I have held my head up as a nurse.” 

“Go, both of you. I shall sleep now. Begone and rest yourselves. I shall see you at luncheon.” He closed his eyes, dismissing us effectively. We smiled at each other and left the room. 

**0o0o0o0o0**

Rising late, I noted that John was already up. I dressed and went forthwith to Sherlock’s room, to find he and John conversing in low tones. I held back, unwilling to intrude. What I heard through the partially open door surprised me. 

“You have a remarkable woman there, Watson.”

“I know. She is capable, clever, gentle...” 

“Would you think me forward and improper if I commented on her beauty as well?” 

“No, Sherlock, never. I know she is beautiful though.” 

“She is, like dark shadows beneath the trees in Summer. Cool and fresh and gentle. She hides hidden talents, guarded thoughts. I do not entirely trust women, as well you know, John, but your wife is as close as I have ever come to trusting one. She is exemplary and more than worthy of you.” 

“Coming from you, Holmes, that is high praise indeed.” 

"It is deserved. However, she said something I wonder at. I think she said it to persuade me to allow her to help me, but...” 

“She told me what she had said. I can confirm here and now that every word is true.” 

“Be careful what you say, John. Scandal and ruin lie behind careless words.” 

“I know. I am not about to be careless. You worry too much. Suffice to say, she was right.” 

I heard Sherlock’s indrawn breath. John must have leaned forward because his next words were almost too low to hear. I heard him murmur that he loved Sherlock, like it or not, and the distinct sound of a kiss. I smiled and opened the door. The two men jumped like naughty school boys. 

“Gentlemen...” I said. “What is the matter? You look as if someone died. What have you been doing? Scrumping apples? I saw that look on my brother’s face once, when he confessed to breaking a greenhouse window with his catapult. Come on, what’s afoot?” John actually blushed. Sherlock looked away, grimacing. That jerk had hurt and I was in a little way remorseful that I had startled them both. “Oh, I hurt you. I’m sorry.” 

“No, madam, it is no fault of yours. John was...” 

“Examining my patient,” he finished. 

“I am sorry to intrude. I hope I find you well.” 

“Better than yesterday,” Holmes agreed. “Thank you.” 

“Good. Have you had breakfast? Shall I ask Mrs Garrow to bring a tray?” 

“That would be most acceptable. I find myself hungry this morning.” 

“A light breakfast only, Holmes,” John warned. “Toast and poached eggs I think.” 

“I shall inform Mrs Garrow. I will return shortly.” I left quickly, a smile on my face, sure in the knowledge that my Boswell and Johnson were both going to be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> The examination procedures Mary uses, although based on modern ones, were in fact in use in the latter part of the 19th century after a few decades of debate as to how useful physical examinations were in a medical diagnosis. Thankfully, the argument for using such techniques won out and formed the basis for the way all doctors diagnose illness and injury today.
> 
> Reviews are welcome. I hope you liked reading.


End file.
